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Ollie: You only date guys predestined to fail. You're a serial dater. Have you seen the same guy more than once in the last seven years?
Avery: That's not the point!
Ozzy: Actually, it is. You intentionally choose losers you know you'll never have a future with.
Ollie: You've always wanted Ryan, and Ryan's always wanted you. Why not cut the bullshit and get back together. Save yourself some time.
Avery: We're not getting back together!
Ollie: Shall we make a bet among siblings?
Avery: How is that even fair? I control the outcome!
Ozzy: Kudos to you, then. You should have no trouble winning.
Ollie: What's the wager?
Ozzy: If we win, and you and Ryan finally get over yourselves and become the real deal, then we get bragging rights, the right to emcee your wedding, and a favour to be called in, no questions asked, anytime.
Avery: What's in it for me?
Ozzy: Our apartment free and clear, furniture and all, with the promise you'll find us another one next summer.
Avery: Are you serious?!
Ollie: As a heart attack.
Avery: This apartment is worth over a million dollars!
Ozzy: We know how much our apartment is worth, Avery.
Ollie: You practically already own the place.
Ozzy: Do we have ourselves a friendly family wager?
Avery: You're on! What's the time limit?
Ozzy: End of the season and playoffs.
Ollie: Try to have some fun losing, Avery :)
I cannot believe my brothers just wagered their condo. They're insane! There is no way I can lose this bet! I'm in control! Screw the workout. I'm opening the bottle of wine now. This apartment is as good as mine! Cheers to me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of someone at my door halts my solo celebration. I'm not expecting anyone unless Holly forgot her keys, which she tends to do, but she's usually sweating her ass off on a torture—uh, I mean Tabata—ride for at least an hour.
By the time I get to the door, the person is knocking again. I wish we had one of those peek-a-boo holes so I can see who it is before opening, but they are kind of redundant when anyone entering the building needs to get past Darby, the doorman, first. I am not exactly dressed for visitors in a pair of yoga pants and a Northmen tee. Fringe benefits of the job—we get loads of free swag.
"Did you forget your keys, Hol," I start to ask, but I abruptly stop when I see the person standing at my doorstep.
Holy mother of fuck!
Tyra Price is standing in my doorway. Tyra fucking Price, the stunning celebrity, movie star, model, and ex-girlfriend of the only man I've ever loved is standing in front of me. I’m dressed in workout clothes, looking like a ditch pig.Thanks, Universe!What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
She looks amazing. Of course she does, because why wouldn't she? You know when you see those people on TV, and you wonder if they look that gorgeous in real life? Tyra isthose people. In fact, she looks better. Her skin is the perfect shade of creamed coffee; her face is perfectly symmetrical with doe eyes the colour of moss, and she has naturally luscious lips. She is one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen in real life.
I want to hate her on the spot, but I can't. You can't hate someone who swoops into your apartment with a massive, warm smile and gives you a big hug. Tyra is a good hugger, too, dammit.
